Intentional
by patronuses
Summary: For her sake, Tony pretends that he's not shattering to pieces, but in reality, he's falling apart.


He watches them from across the bullpen.

It doesn't take long for fury to bubble up inside him and render him useless. His hands shake, and when it finally progresses up to his chest, he shoves away the involuntary action and stiffens to keep still. He doesn't want her to see him like this, all messed up and broken with ruffled feathers over something that really wasn't any of his business in the first place.

If she could see him, she would tell him that it wasn't his business. Her personal life wasn't his business at all. And hell, she could chant it at him like a martyr, and it wouldn't change a damn thing. As far as he was concerned, this had everything to do with him.

His hands continue to tremble, and no matter how hard he tries, he can't stop them.

He eventually gives up trying.

He watches their quiet, whispered and flirty conversation with a mixture of envy, rage, and jealousy swirling in his stomach. Her head is cocked, her body leaning toward the other man, facing him and only him, giving him her complete and undivided attention, so much so that she can't see her trembling partner.

He wonders if she would be able to see right through him. He wonders if she would even recognize the agony searing in his chest. He wonders if she would try to do anything to put him out of his misery. He thinks that she would if she could. Maybe.

The other man can see him very clearly over the top of her head, but he pointedly ignores the glaring and sharp gaze that masks the mess within, not intimidated in the least because he knows.

He knows that there is no competition.

She runs a hand through her hair as she speaks, and it becomes too much.

As his eyes flicker closed in an attempt to regain control, his head betrays him like it always does. An image of the slight smile, the close-lipped, tilted and crooked smile that she reserves for moments when she is overcome with emotion fills his head and haunts him.

He thinks that she may have the expression on her face right now.

The idea makes him breathless.

She couldn't be looking at the stranger like that, not when the look was only supposed to be for him because he remembered a time when it was exactly that. Him and only him.

He never allowed himself to believe that she was really with this stranger until now. How could he? She intentionally never mentioned him. He would have to ask and press forward and grill her until she admitted that yes, she had a new friend.

And for the longest time, that's all he was. A friend.

She intentionally never elaborated because, maybe, she thought that she was helping the both of them. He wouldn't get jealous. She wouldn't have to deal with questions that she didn't want to answer.

And his stupid self believed her because her last boyfriend ended up being a traitor to her, and hell, if he was in her position, he wouldn't be with anyone for years and years in fear of a reoccurrence.

He didn't see any threat, but there was one because without him even realizing it, she had moved on.

The prime, one-of-a-kind investigator never saw it because he was biased and never believed that he would have to fight for her. Or, perhaps, more accurately, he didn't allow himself to entertain the idea of her finding someone else because he thought that they finally had a chance.

Given everything they went through, everything that he did for her, it wasn't a completely insane idea that he would be given a chance.

Sometimes, he swore he saw it, the remnants of old feelings for him. Sometimes, she would look at him and the intensity of it would make him shy away and blush. Sometimes, she'd touch his arm a little longer than necessary and make him look at her and it would be like old times, silent conversations, not saying but knowing the truth.

Sometimes, he swore that she was in love with him too.

When he found out about the other man, he thought that maybe she was playing him again, teasing him and trying to make him say the things that should have been said years ago, but really, that wasn't the case at all. Not at all.

It wasn't a prank. It wasn't a joke. There were no anterior motives, no hidden meanings.

It was what it was.

She fell in love with another man, right under his nose, and he did nothing to stop it.

One day, they were teasing and playing, and the next, he finds out that he already lost her.

That's the worst part about it.

He's convinced that he could have stopped it, that he could have done something, anything, to keep her from falling for the stranger. It wasn't fair. He has been the one here all along. He is the one who's always around to pick up the pieces. He is the one who has seen her at her best and her worst and everything in between. He is the one who has been here through thick and thin and loves her more than he ever loved anything before.

He has been here all along, and he hasn't said a thing.

His eyes snap open because the darkness overtaking him threatens to pull him under, and he's suddenly aware of how watery they've gotten. He tries to clear his throat, and the action feels like he's rubbing sandpaper against it. It's painful. There is no wetness in his mouth. If he were to talk, his voice would be a rasping, dying hoarseness.

He's thankful that there's no one here to see him like this because he can't hide it.

He's falling apart, dying even.

It certainly feels like it.

He hates that this could have been avoided. He hates the other man and thinks that he's like a suave, double-the-price copy of him, a better version of him, complete with gun, badge, and winning smile. The other man has to be better than him.

She's so happy.

It should make him happy, but he's not the one who's bringing her joy. It taints the feeling.

This feels like a sadistic nightmare, and humorlessly, he realizes it is.

His life has become a nightmare, and it shows no sign of changing.

He wants to throw his head back and let out a scream. The urge is overpowering. It takes everything he has to keep himself in his seat, and he starts shaking all over. This time, he can't stop any of it. The anger in his chest makes him want to destroy everything in sight even though he knows the truth behind it.

He's furious with himself.

If he had done something sooner, if he wasn't such a coward, maybe she would be looking at him with that smile on her face. Maybe he would be the one making her happy and giggly and bursting with life. Maybe he wouldn't feel like he was dying inside.

But the truth of the matter is that he is dying inside, and he can't shove away the feeling like he has so many times before. He has gotten tastes of it before, but it would always disappear, given enough time. He isn't sure about it going away this time, though. This is in a class of all its own. It's been building up for years, and it's come back with a vengeance.

He thinks that this must be the emotional equivalent of getting limbs chopped off one by one, piece by piece.

Fleetingly, he tries to convince himself that this isn't worth it, that it wasn't worth it in the first place, that she isn't worth it, that he needs to pick up and move on because he lost his chance a long time ago.

He feels disgusted with himself almost immediately.

To think that she isn't worth it makes a sick, nauseous feeling start churning in with the agony in his heart, and it makes his head hurt.

He tries thinking the opposite.

He thinks that maybe it's better late than never. He wonders what would happen if he marched over there and grabbed her and shook her and told her that he loves her and he's sorry for being so stupid.

The idea makes him hurt more than trying to forget about her.

At the end of the day, no matter how much he wants to, he knows that he can't do that to her.

Even though he's in agony and ready to collapse from it, he can't do that to her.

She's happy, really happy, and he can see that on her face and hear it in her voice and feel it deep in his chest.

He can't bring himself to break her or cause her any pain. There have been too many people in her life who have done so, and he can't bring himself to be another.

This man, this other man who will never be him, makes her happy, and he has to live with it.

He's never seen her this way, and for him to break that would be unimaginable.

Worse than dying, even.

He may be lying in razor blades, but if she's happy, then maybe he can deal with the scalpels and wounds. But, a small, quiet part of him he realizes that there's only so much he can take, and eventually, he's going to bleed out and there will be nothing left.

He will deal with it when it comes.

Blinking to focus his glazed over vision, he sees the other man leaning in very close to her face, and from the way he's positioned, he thinks that the man is caressing her hands. He's whispering words into her ear, and she's nodding at them fervently.

Happily.

A new wave of feeling hits him hard. It sneaks up on him, and the air suddenly becomes heavy, too heavy for him to suck into his dying lungs, and he stands.

He doesn't grab his things. He doesn't grab his jacket. He doesn't even grab his phone. He moves on autopilot and walks right past them, stiff and aching and dying inside. He doesn't look at them. He doesn't think he can without crumbling to the floor. He doesn't know where he's going. He doesn't care that he's going to get hell for leaving in the middle of a case because he simply can't stay and watch his world fall apart all around him.

He wants to run and never look back because anything would be better than sitting and watching the one who got away.

He's now convinced that it's all she'll ever be.

An unrequited love. The one who got away.

The searing pain becomes a scalding fire, and he barely notices the difference.

He hears her call his name softly in a way that makes him shatter into pieces that he can't possibly pick up. He realizes that he probably won't even try to. It almost sounds like she's hurting too, but that's impossible because she knows nothing about his pain. She doesn't know what's going on in his head.

He wants to turn around. He really does, but he forces himself not to because he knows what he'll see.

A concerned face with a question that he can't possibly answer.

He pretends not to hear her, and he already dreads the moment when he has to look at her again, knowing the truth but pretending not to be broken.

For her sake.


End file.
